


Ostende mihi verum

by ToriCeratops



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Author Is a Whump-asaurus-rex, Dark, Demonic Possession, Disaster Malcolm, Exorcisms, Exorcist Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22615849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/pseuds/ToriCeratops
Summary: Malcolm Bright, the ex-FBI field Exorcist is one of the best.  One of only fifty or so people in the world who can perform an on the fly exorcism and leave the victim alive every single time.  He knows everything there is to know about the Darkness, about the creatures and the demons that roam our realm, about possession.He should have known better.He should have seen.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 17
Kudos: 69





	Ostende mihi verum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batonblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batonblue/gifts).



> This fic contains non-con due to demonic possession between two people who trust each other more than anyone else. Please heed the tags and this warning before going further if that may upset you in anyway.
> 
> Based on a request in the discord for some supernatural hunter AU. I jumped and said 'how hard'?

_Ostende mihi verum. Ostende mihi faciem tuam animam meam_

_Show me the truth. Show me your soul._

* * *

The lights of the city flicker through the windows as they drive by; Malcolm is resting his head on his hand, staring out at nothing and fiddling with his medallion.

It was another long hunt, chasing down a fear demon in lower Manhattan. It wasn’t his favorite type of hunt… dangerous, yes, as they all are. But not enough to figure out. Not enough puzzles to solve. Plus, they’d gotten the victim back to the precinct unscathed and were able to perform an exorcism the old fashioned way. The long way. 

The  _ boring  _ way.

It’s good, of course, that they were able to save her. They were able to send the demon back to whatever level of hell from whence it had crawled. But Malcolm is one of the few people licensed to do field exorcisms. It’s a thrill, a rush, to be able to feel the power of the Light flowing through his body just because he’s speaking the right words, can focus like no one else really can. 

Honestly, it’s probably the only reason the FBI kept him around as long as they did. There are maybe fifty people alive in the whole world who can pull those off without killing the victims, and even then it can be dicey and the victims don't exactly come out unscathed. They’d needed him more than they were scared of him.

But eventually, the fear won out.

Luckily for Malcolm, Gil had recently taken over the team in the Supernatural Division of the NYPD. He’s a smart man, using every resource at his disposal, and the NYPD hadn’t had a field exorcist since the late 80s. 

Malcolm is stoked to work, not just to be working but to be working for Gil. 

He’s known him for twenty years, been indebted to him since they met the night Gil took down Malcolm’s father. Gil feels the same way, of course. He’s said so time and time again. He insists that if it hadn’t been for Malcolm, Martin Whitly would still be terrorizing the city, maybe even the country. But now, because Malcolm called the police and because Gil trusted the word of a ten year old kid, the most prolific dark creature the US had ever seen is in a maximum security magical lock up. They still don’t know what he is. He isn't possessing anyone, can’t be sent back where he came from. No one had ever figured that part out, and Martin Whitly isn’t talking. About that, anyway. 

Luckily for Malcolm, he and his sister had always come up on tests and scans as one hundred percent human. 

Or they would have been locked away too.

Not that people don’t think they should have been. There are  _ still  _ those who find out about his lineage and wonder why he’s allowed to walk around free.

Sometimes, he’s one of them. 

It never sits right with him, when he takes those tests and sees those scan results. He’s never  _ felt  _ wholly human. Something is different about him—something dark—something he doesn’t understand but he knows is inside. 

For the most part, he ignores those feelings. When they happen, he takes a deep breath, and lets them pass.

“Do you want to come up for a drink?”

Malcolm turns to look at Gil as they come to a stop in front of Malcolm’s building. He’s hopeful, as always. Since he was 19 he’s been in love with the man, though he’s never said anything about it. But it’s been years since Jackie, years since it would have been considered inappropriate based on Malcolm’s age. And he still has hope. Still thinks of him when he’s lonely, still craves his company.

Still melts at his touch.

“Sure, kid. Why not?”

They do this, sometimes. More often than not Gil will turn him down. But when he takes him up on the offer it’s always one drink. Never more than fifteen minutes or so of conversation. Then he pats Malcolm on the shoulder, and heads home.

Every time.

Once they’re in Malcolm’s loft, they both shrug out of their coats and make their way to the bar, Gil peering through the expensive selection of whiskeys to pick his poison for the night. 

“How long have you had this?” He asks, holding up the bottle of Glenfiddich fifty year old scotch.

Malcolm had bought that specifically with Gil in mind. He knows his tastes inside and out. It had been hard to find, and expensive, but the excited grin on Gil’s face is completely worth it. 

“Ah, I just stumbled across it a few weeks ago. Seemed like something you might enjoy so I snatched it up.”

Gil pours them both a glass, then gestures towards the couch. 

Malcolm sits first and, to his surprise, Gil sits right next to him.

That… is new.

Malcolm quietly sips at his whiskey and watches.

Something feels so different tonight and his pulse kicks up in excited anticipation. Gil stares at his own drink, swirling the amber liquid around in the crystal tumbler - seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Malcolm watches his hands - the way his long fingers curl around the crystal. He watches his broad shoulders, how they rise and fall in slow, even motions. He watches his lips, how he purses them together then swipes his tongue out before dragging his bottom lip out slowly between his teeth. He watches his eyes, how they flick over to Malcolm before darting right back to the drink in his hands. 

Malcolm watches, and he waits.

“I need to ask you something, kid.” Gil reaches forward and sets his tumbler down on the coffee table. When he settles back he’s turned towards Malcolm, face unreadable. 

“Anything,” Malcolm says, setting his own drink on the end table at the arm of the couch.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

Malcolm blinks in confusion. “Doing what?”

“Inviting me up for a drink, to your dark apartment in the middle of the night,” he speaks quietly, voice dropping lower with every word. He leans in and Malcolm’s brain short circuits when Gil reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly against Malcolm’s temple like he’s pushing back a lock of hair.

He can’t help the way he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring it.

“How is it any different from all the other times we have a drink together?”

There is a hand on Malcom’s knee and suddenly he can’t breathe. “You know why it’s different,” Gil says. “Late nights like this,” he moves his hand further along Malcom’s leg, fingers tracing the seam along the inside of his thigh. Malcom’s body reacts instantly, surging with arousal, a deep warmth in the pit of his stomach, “...can lead to some pretty poor decision making.”

He’s close. 

They’re close.

Malcolm can feel the warmth of his breath, the heat of Gil’s body. It’s extra hot, radiating from the older man and Malcolm can’t help the way he melts at it.

“I’m not exactly well known for my good decision making skills even in the daytime,” he points out.

“Oh yeah? I never noticed.”

When Gil kisses him, Malcolm’s whole world turns inside out.

It’s more than he’d ever dreamed of, warm and sweet, a roughness from his facial hair that rubs in all the right ways. Malcolm opens up to him, deepening the kiss, parting his lips to slide tongue against tongue. It quickly becomes filthy and Gil’s hand finishes its trail along Malcom’s thigh to palm at his cock, making sparks of pleasure explode all along his body. He wants more, he wants so fucking much.

Malcolm crawls into Gil’s lap and begins pulling at his sweater, pausing their actions only long enough to yank it over the older man’s head. But instead of returning to his mouth, Gil gets his lips on the side of Malcolm's neck while he works on his buttons.

He pulls a moan from deep in Malcolm's chest as Gil bites and sucks at the tendon, surely leaving deep marks.

“I never thought…” Malcolm breathes out, his mind and heart going in a million different directions at once.

Gil pushes Malcom’s shirt down and off his shoulders. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he admits against Malcolm’s skin.

Malcom clings to him, letting his own head fall back to give him more access then starts rolling his hips, grinding down against Gil in a way that has them both losing their concentration.

“Why now?”

“Figured it was time to make some bad decisions of my own.”

“Why don’t we make some bad decisions in the bed?” Malcolm asks, biting at Gil’s ear with a deep timbre in his voice.

Somehow, Gil manages to lift Malcolm, hands under his ass, without much effort. Malcolm is too turned on by it to pay the warning bell in the back of his head much attention, especially once Gil gets his lips back on Malcolm’s and they’re kissing again. It’s rough and needy and Malcolm goes dizzy from more than just the lack of oxygen. 

Hands and mouths go everywhere, fumbling with belts and more buttons, pushing at clothes until they’re both laid out and naked on Malcolm’s bed. He pauses just long enough to grab his bottle of lube and a condom from his night stand then sinks back into the feeling of Gil’s mouth on his body, marking a trail of bites down his chest. 

"Hands against the headboard," Gil demands with a smirk. "No touching."

Malcolm groans and does as he's told, trusting Gil to take care of him, to give him what he wants.

He rocks his hips up when Gil slides slick fingers down between his cheeks, spreading his knees out wide and whining in anticipation. His entire body hums, sparks of desire radiating through every inch of his skin. When Gil slides a single finger past his entrance, Malcolm gasps, sucking in a sharp breath and unable to exhale the whole time he moves. 

"Breathe, kid." Gil curls his finger and presses in deep twice more before adding a second, holding them out wide and moving in quick, deliberate motions.

As much as Malcolm wants this, wants him, it’s too fast, too much stretch and he sucks in another quick breath at the sharp stab of pain. 

“Gil,” he whines, pulling back a little, “Gil, wait. Hold on a second.”

But Gil moves up Malcolm’s body with a wicked grin that makes Malcolm’s heart freeze. He uses his free hand to press both of Malcolm’s wrists together above his head.

“No,” he growls out. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Malcolm's eyes go wide in horror. 

The hands at Malcolm’s wrists tighten and he can feel the unnatural strength behind them, strength that could easily snap bone. 

He has made a grave error.

A third finger pushes in, in a vain mockery of care, a false pretense at giving Malcolm any sort of relief. 

This isn’t Gil.

But Malcolm had wanted so much, so badly, that he couldn’t see.

Blinded by his own desires he had missed everything. Missed the actions that should have been obvious. The signs were all there.

“No. No, no, no.” He fights to get away, tries to push against the hand holding him down but it feels like an iron anchor, keeping him in place. “Gil,” he whispers out through his panic. “I’m sorry. I should have seen. I should have noticed.”

Gil’s eyes light up with malice and his wicked smile grows. “Gil’s not around right now.” 

He moves, grabbing Malcolm by the middle and flipping him over before Malcolm can even register what’s going on. His long, hard cock glides along Malcolm’s slick ass and he laughs, dark and terrifying. 

Malcolm’s chest aches with what he’s allowed to happen, what he’s caused by not seeing. 

He’s done this.

“Yes, he is,” Malcolm insists, still doing his best to fight against the strength holding him down, threatening to make its way in. “I know you’re in there. Please forgive me.”

Tears fill his eyes. The agony in his heart is far worse than the pressure on his wrists and the sudden burst of pain when the thing driving Gil’s body finally gets what it’s after. It  _ hurts.  _ It hurts his body, it hurts everything he is. 

“I should have known you’d never want this.” He can barely make out his own words.

“Do you know why I came up here?” The thing bottoms out with a groan and Malcolm does everything in his power not to become lost in the pain. When he’s in pain, he can’t focus on the Light—can’t channel it, can’t speak the Words to drive out what’s taking over both of them right now. “Because I knew it would be easy. Because he knows how you feel.” He sounds too much like Gil, the deep timbre of his voice, the cadence of it. It tears at Malcolm’s heart. “And he wants it too. Ever since that night he picked you up at a rave when you were home from college, drunk off your ass in just those tight gold lamae shorts.” It pulls out and drives back in while biting at Malcolm’s shoulder. “He came so much with that one image in his head.”

Malcolm looks back over his shoulder, trying to hide the fear that trembles through his whole body in his scowl. “You’re lying.”

“Mm. Nope.” It begins to move in earnest, chasing its own pleasure. “Now he sees you every day. Wants to ruin you.” Every movement is agony on Malcolm’s soul, his body reacting as if it really is Gil, really is everything he wanted. “Dreams of taking your mouth, of bending you over his desk.” The thing bites at his shoulder again, hard. Malcolm bites at his own lip to keep from screaming, from giving the demon the pleasure of his pain. “At least he doesn’t have to imagine what your tight little ass feels like anymore. You gave it up so easily.”

“ _ Ost… Ostende mihi verum _ ,” he whispers through his tears, grasping for the energy. But there is no connection, no focus. Malcolm can’t clear his mind enough to put any force behind the words, too jumbled. Despite it all, he still sees the flash of the truth, the real darkness behind Gil’s face - dark and malicious.

_ “Ostende mihi fa… faciem tuam anim… animam meam _ ...” 

Too lost.

Too broken.

Something snaps, deep in Malcolm’s soul. Something that’s been lying dormant his whole life. That pit, at the bottom of his stomach that has always been there, the feeling that made him know he was different, that he’s not like they all say he is. It fills him and shouts out at the universe, breathing life into itself until Malcolm can’t feel the body invading his any longer, just the deep, tumultuous rage from within.

“Get out,” he grits through his teeth. 

On top of him, Gil’s body stills. Malcolm looks back to find him wide eyed, frightful. 

“What did you say?” There’s a tremor in that voice, one that’s nothing but terror. 

Good.

**_“GET._ **

**_OUT.”_ **

Gil’s body jerks and the movement gives Malcolm a reprieve from the pressure on his wrist. It’s enough he can throw him off, watching GIl land on his back at the center of his bed as he begins to convulse. Malcolm has no idea what he did but he knows what the beginning of an exorcism looks like. 

More importantly, he knows what the middle and end look like too and it's not pretty. 

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Malcolm scrambles for his mouth guard as Gil’s seizing begins to grow violent. A high pitched whistle fills the air around them, grating at Malcolm’s head.

Before he can get back to him though, Gil’s body freezes arched high off the bed, and a deep, crimson substance pours from his mouth and eyes. It swirls through the air with patches of deep blue and purple, bursts of light shine through that make it look like stars in a far off galaxy.

It would be beautiful if it hadn’t just torn Malcolm’s entire world apart.

For a moment it hovers there, as they always do.

Normally, the demon flies off, to find a gateway back to the depths it came from. On extremely rare occasions - if it's particularly strong - it will find a new host before that can happen.

Malcolm watches in horrified shock as the stars and colors begin to dissolve before his eyes.

Less than a minute later, there’s simply nothing there.

Everything is quiet.

Still.

In all Malcolm’s years of training, watching, and performing exorcisms he has never seen anything like what he just witnessed. Even field exorcisms take time. Take specific words.  _ Intent.  _ The creatures always fight to stay behind, struggling to hold on. It’s that struggle that always proves most dangerous to their victims. 

A sudden gasp from Gil breaks Malcolm from his trance.

He scrambles over to help the other man sit up then places his hands on either side of Gil’s face.

“ _ Ostende mihi verum. Ostende mihi faciem tuam animam meam, _ ” he says as quickly as he can, desperate.

When Gil’s face doesn’t change, just stares back at him with his dark brown eyes full of sorrow and pain, Malcolm breathes. He throws his arms around Gil’s shoulders as tears fall freely. 

“It’s me.” Gil grabs Malcolm around the middle and holds on tight. “It’s just me, kid.”

“I’m so sorry, Gil,” he says into the older man’s shoulder before pulling back. “I should have noticed.” Malcolm realizes they’re both still naked and scrambles to rearrange the blankets around each of them so they’re at least partially covered.

“No. God, stop,” Gil pleads with him. He looks so broken. “I had to watch you - you looking at me like that when I didn’t stop.” His lips tremble, eyes going glassy with unshed tears. “Jesus, kid. I’m so sorry.” 

“That wasn’t you.” They aren’t touching any longer, sitting side by side, a few inches between them but miles apart. “And I had so many warnings. So many signs. When he picked me up, when I took off your sweater and your medallion was missing. Fuck when he,” Malcolm’s voice breaks. “When he kissed me. When he touched me. You would never…”

He can’t look at Gil, can’t face what he has done, what he’s done to Gil, to their friendship. Malcolm’s body aches but his heart feels like it's been torn to pieces, that he’s irreparably damaged the best thing in his life.

Silence hangs heavy between them, a nearly crushing weight.

Beside him, Gil draws his knees up and hangs his head.

“He was telling the truth.”

Gil’s words are soft, quiet, nearly as broken as Malcolm feels.

“What?”

“About everything.”

Malcolm stares at him in shock. It’s so unexpected he almost recites the Words of Truth at him again but bites back down on it.

“You,” Malcolm almost can’t even process what Gil is saying. That he thinks of him like that. That he wants him.  _ Wanted. Before tonight. Before Malcolm broke them.  _ That it’s been that way for ages. Almost as long for GIl as it has been for Malcolm. 

But he runs through their interactions in his head, how Gil’s tactile but carefully distant, how he treats Malcolm, how he speaks to him.

“You still call me kid.”

Gil lets out a huff of a humorless laugh and shakes his head. “I still call you kid  _ because  _ of how I feel about you. As a reminder to myself that I’ve known you since you were ten.”

“I’m not ten anymore,” Malcolm reminds him.

“I know.”

They’re silent again for a moment before GIl reaches out to Malcolm, slow and careful like he always does. But Malcom’s head is still a mess of confusion and adrenaline and he jerks back.

Gi’s face breaks, a picture of devastation.

“Hey. Don’t,” Malcolm immediately turns and grabs Gil’s hands in his. “I’m gonna do that for a bit, just give me time.”

Though Gil nods he traces the quickly forming bruises in the shape of his own hand on Malcolm’s wrist. “I should go.”

“You need to lay down and sleep,” Malcolm tells him. It’s a miracle the man is even conscious but Malcom’s trying not to think about that right now. “You know as well as I do that it’s dangerous to do anything but rest for the first 24 hours.”

Gil looks lost and unsure. But more than that, he looks exhausted.

“Please,” Malcolm begs. “And Gil,” he brings Gil’s hands up to press a soft kiss to worn knuckles. “We’re going to work this out. I can’t lose you.”

For the first time since Malcolm got him back, Gil smiles. It’s a sad and weary thing, but there. “I can’t lose you either, ki… Malcolm.” He places a hand on Malcolm’s face, rubbing a tear from his cheek with a calloused thumb.

They both move, hesitant, but hopeful, until their lips meet in a single, soft, brief kiss that is more of a promise than all the words in the world. 

“Stay here,” Malcolm says when they pull apart. “I’m going to get you some water, then you’re going to sleep.”

He knows Gil’s exhausted when the older man doesn’t even put up a token protest. After slipping on some underwear Malcolm makes sure Gil drinks plenty of water before watching as he passes out almost the second his head hits the pillow. Then he leaves a full glass and a bottle of pain relievers on the bedside table. Possession hangovers are a million times worse than alcohol induced ones.

As soon as he’s taken care of Malcolm forces himself into the shower.

And promptly freaks the fuck out.

Not about what he did to Gil.

But about how he stopped it.

He had never felt further from the Light than when that demon was inside him. The Words were written by the Light, a language passed down from the time of the immortals. It is the only thing that can control the darkness and those that dwell in it. The Light is pure; it is order. But he was chaos. 

Malcolm hadn’t used the Light, hadn’t used the Words.

And yet, he had done more than just control the darkness. 

He had overwhelmed it.

Destroyed it.

He can still feel that burning in the pit of his stomach, the rage that had boiled and seethed ‘til it broke free. Though it hadn’t felt like he’s ever felt before, when he spoke that command he’d been more real, more honest with himself and who he is, than he’s ever been in his entire life. 

Malcolm is terrified.

Time stretches beyond his awareness as he sits under the spray of water, letting it run down his body in a desperate attempt to wash away his fear.

When he finally emerges Malcolm is still in a daze, pulling on soft clothes and ignoring any clocks as he goes to sit in the dark on his couch. 

For a long time he stares into the nothingness, blank and alone.

"My boy…."

Malcolm jerks. He must have fallen asleep. 

But when he blinks and shakes his head, his father is standing there, right in front of him. He’s in the same thing he wears every time he sees him, the white jumper and a simple cardigan.

He’s loose.

Free.

"You're not here. I'm dreaming." Malcolm rubs at his eyes, desperate for that to be the truth. 

"No. You're not dreaming. And I am absolutely here. Well not," he gestures to the floor "here. But rather, here." Martin reaches out and touches Malcolm's chest, a single finger pressed over his heart. 

"I've been waiting for this day since the moment you were born."

Martin Whitly gives his son a wide, vile, but delighted smile.

"Your powers are finally awake, and I have  _ so much  _ to teach you."

  
  
  
  



End file.
